Hoping for Home
by LillieGrey
Summary: For as long as he can remember, from his earliest childhood memory, his life has been wrapped in the whispering words of the Wind. He can almost hear them, like a muffled calling, beckoning him from far away, even though he can never quite make out the words, not like she can. Not like his Mama. (Regal believer and eventual Outlaw Queen, based loosely off of the film Chocolat)


For as long as he can remember, from his earliest childhood memory, his life has been wrapped in the whispering words of the Wind. He can almost hear them, like a muffled calling, beckoning him from far away, even though he can never quite make out the words, not like _she_ can. Not like his Mama.

The Wind calls to her, tunnels through her hair and wraps around her limbs, gusting and growling as she gathers their things, wraps him warmly in his cloak, and lets the voice calling her on the breeze carry them out of yet another town, shaking the dust from their tired, wandering feet. The siren song of the Wind has been the lullaby of his childhood, the melody they've marched to from place to place until arriving here, Storybrooke, Maine.

As the wind settles and the sky clears, he drinks in the simple beauty of small town shop fronts, quaint two way roads, picket fences, and New England cottage homes, and a kernel of hope begins to blossom in his chest. Maybe this time they can stop. Maybe this is where they can stay; maybe they can finally find _home._

It takes some searching, but they finally find just what they're looking for, an empty corner store with a neatly scrawled 'for rent' sign hanging in the window. The inside is a little worse for wear, the walls are covered in garish orange wallpaper that's dotted with burgundy and yellow flowers, the floors are squeaky and coated in dust, but there is a decently appointed catering kitchen in the back, a large glass pastry case that will be fine after a good scrubbing, and rows of shelves along the walls that will be perfect to display their wares. There's even a small two bedroom loft upstairs they can live in for only an extra two hundred a month.

It's horrendous and hideous. He can't hide the disappointment and disgust twisting across his face as he looks around, but then he sees an all too familiar twinkle in his Mama's eye.

She turns to him, her lips curving in a smile, as she says, "It's perfect."

They spend days scraping the walls, scrubbing the floors, sweeping away the dust and the cobwebs, the flaking paint and the peeling wallpaper. Together they strip away the old, airing out the smell of neglect and decay until every inch is clean and bare, waiting to breathe anew.

The townspeople wander back and forth trying to peer through the windows, to catch a glimpse of the strange _single_ woman with her illegitimate son, wondering what they're working so hard on. Their words filter through the cracks in the glass, insults and insinuations, but she just brushes the hair out of her eyes, wipes the dust and the sweat from her face and smiles, bright and warm, like the sun itself, until they scurry away unable to face the shadow their thoughts cast in the face of her light.

Once they've stripped and sanded, reforming the little corner store in their image with splashes of color, swirling runes painstakingly painted across the walls wrapping around the room like a story waiting to be told—that's when the real wonder begins.

It's like magic, watching his mother bake, the way her fingers roll and grind, adding a pinch of this here or a dash of that there until the mixture is just right. Practiced hands transform ordinary ingredients into works of art, feasts for the senses and the soul. She has what some would call _the gift_ , but what many— including his Mama— have always called a curse.

There is more to her creations than mere sustenance; emotion pours from her fingers into her food, infusing the flavor with an aftertaste of empathy, or a salty tang of memory, the sharpness of loss, or the blooming spice of infatuation. Her hands knead balls of bread dough into tender submission, folding in the sweet succulence of fig and the woodsy brightness of rosemary to banish the feeling of hopelessness from whoever samples a slice. An intricately braided loaf is stuffed with warming spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and cardamom and finished with a spread of plum jam for sweetness to crack a cold and bitter heart into the glow new love. Sweet sticky buns dark with rich chocolate, sea salt, and chili for a heart about to break. Every combination is carefully crafted, baked and glazed to perfection and then sorted into baskets lining the shelves of the back wall to await the customer who is destined to take them home, to sample the fruits of his mother's curse that will restore balance to the broken and weary or the hot-headed and foolish, until this town, like all the others, is mended and they are forced to leave once again.

But this time, something feels different. Something in the crisp Maine air whispers of change and possibility; hope curls itself around his spine, slithering through his blood and into his lungs, stealing his breath with its sharpness. Henry knows the dangers of hope, the wasteful wish of home and happiness and _staying_. He knows it will only cause him and his Mama pain, but he can't seem to shake it away.

Their first customers arrive with the metal chiming of the bell and a teasing gust of autumn chill dancing in through the door. There is always a darkness to the new customers, an aura of damage and missing that brings them trailing the tantalizing smell of fresh bread and warm sugar. They peer through the display case and whisper to one another, questioning what sort of woman raises a child alone, in these times, with something as trivial as baking, but eventually the stacks of stuffed loaves and the flaky pie crusts filled with glistening fruits and creamy custards win them over. One by one they come to the counter to place their orders, asking for recommendations when they can't decide, and that, is where his Mama truly shines.

She looks them over with calm, amber eyes as if reading them like the pages of a book before turning and holding her hand out, ghosting it along one item after another until something feels right. A sharp lemon tart to take the sting out of loneliness, an earthy oatmeal and black pepper biscuit to bring peace to an anxious mind, or a coffee and walnut slice to remind someone of things they've neglected; each item perfectly matched to fill what is lacking in each customer. His mother wraps and bags each thing, remembering faces and names, her own internal inventory creating a map of the town and its residents.

And so, it continues; each day his Mama rises before the sun, baking little pieces of her gift away until the air is thick with flour and heat, her skin glistening with sweat in the early dawn light like the shining glaze on top of her fruit tarts. The store opens, customers filter in, taking what they need and leaving one piece closer to whole, while his Mama slowly dissolves like crumbs floating to the bottom of a glass of milk. Each passing day takes more and more from his Mama until at the end of the first month, he wakes to find her face stained with tears of blood that drip off her chin and into the bowls of bread dough; her curse literally bleeding her dry to save the souls of those who are unworthy of her wares. 


End file.
